


Cui Dono Lepidum Novum Libellum

by Sineala



Category: Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Catullus goes to college.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cui Dono Lepidum Novum Libellum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).



> *facepalm* I have no idea how this happened, but I hope you like your treat.
> 
> Title is from Catullus 1. The people are from various poems; obviously some of them are attested elsewhere in actual history. There are references to (and occasionally quotations from) 16, 48, 51, 57, 99, and probably some others I am forgetting.
> 
> Thanks to Ambyr for a beta on very short notice.
> 
> Additional warnings: Sometimes characters are insulting obscene jerkfaces, because Catullus.

Catullus fucking hates college. He hates everything about it. He's here at his father's goddamn school, pledging his father's goddamn frat -- "Networking," the old man said, with that horrible smile. Just like how he got Catullus to do that gap year in Bithynia, and wasn't that fucking awful? This isn't going to be better. He doesn't want to go into politics or be a lawyer or doctor or whatever else passes for his family's ambition.

He wants to write poetry. He's good at it. Major in lit, creative writing, maybe drama... maybe an art school. Or maybe NYU. They would have understood him there.

But no, he's here with a bunch of mouthbreathers who probably wouldn't know a metaphor if it bit them on the ass. They probably fucking play football. It's that kind of frat. It's that kind of school. Goddammit.

He hears the noise of footsteps on the stairs from far enough away that he has time to drag the stack of posters over his notebook. Don't want the jocks making fun of him already.

But the guy who ducks in -- and he has to actually duck to get in, because he's that tall -- looks like he'd be more at home in the drama department, and Catullus entertains a brief moment of hope that maybe this won't be that bad. The stranger is slender, dark-eyed, and he wears a tight, faded purple t-shirt bearing the words _Ἀνερρίφθω κύβος_. Catullus is pretty sure that isn't the frat motto, but he doesn't know what it is.

"Hey," the guy says. "Just checking to see how you're liking the place." He holds out a hand in a move that seems calculated for maximum friendliness, like he's some kind of politician in the making. "Caesar. You probably don't remember me from rush--"

This is true. He doesn't remember much of anything. But he thinks he's heard the guy's name before. Something about student government.

"Nah, man, sorry." He shakes Caesar's hand and feels like he ought to introduce himself. "I'm Catullus."

"Yeah, I know. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know, hey, I'm here if you need anything. You can ask me or Mamurra, whatever it is, we can probably hook you up. And if it's help with poli sci homework, I am the man." Caesar smiles a smooth, smooth smile, the kind of smile that could be "vote for me" or "fuck me now," and grudgingly Catullus revises his opinion upward. This could be interesting. Not really his type, though.

"Thanks," Catullus says, fixing his gaze at a point beyond Caesar's shoulder, and Caesar takes this as his cue to leave.

He's interrupted three more times before he's done putting his posters up -- once by this junior, Mamurra, who is like Caesar only way too fucking smarmy about it, and once by this asshole named Furius. The third interruption is his new roommate.

_Short_ , Catullus thinks, because, really, the guy is practically a dwarf. Then _oh my God, he's such a nerd._ And those glasses aren't doing him any favors.

"I'm Calvus," the guy says. "I'm pre-law. Going to be, I mean," which is weird because Catullus would totally have pegged him for CS. He has an impressive collection of video games and computer games, and Catullus lets him go on and on about some game where you go to Dacia and they made it so you have real Dacian weapons like the falx and isn't that badass, man, the physics are so great--

Okay, so he might be lying on his bed pretending to fall asleep. No one ever said he was polite.

Then he opens his eyes in a hurry, because Calvus sounds much closer to his side of the room, and there's the sound of flipping paper, and oh God he's got _his poetry notebook_ \--

"Hey, what's this? A poem?"

"Mine!" yells Catullus, snatching it out of his hands. "I mean, uh."

Calvus stares at him awkwardly. "That's cool," he says, finally. "I mean, you're all creative. I can get behind that. Sometimes I write poetry too."

* * *

It turns out Calvus' poetry is actually pretty awesome.

* * *

The walls are thin, and Caesar's got the room next door.

And he's loud.

Every single moan is horrifyingly audible, and the bed on the other side of the wall goes thump-thump-thump-wham like any minute it's going to come crashing through the drywall.

In the darkness, Calvus raises his head; he can't sleep either, obviously, and he's looking around in mortified fascination. Catullus smirks and tries to pretend that he's not just as interested.

"So who do you think he's with?"

"I don't know." Catullus tries to muffle his laughter into his pillow, but that only makes it come out worse.

"Dude," Calvus says. "Maybe it's Mamurra."

"That's awful," Catullus says, but oh God, he can't stop thinking about it now. "What if it is?"

Next door, someone moans.

Calvus stretches and flips the desk lamp on without actually getting up. "I've got an idea."

"Yeah?"

"Write a poem about the two of them." He lifts his eyebrows. "You know. Fucking."

"You," Catullus says, grinning like he's only just learned how, "are brilliant."

Maybe college isn't going to suck after all, he thinks, as he grabs his notebook.

He cuts Bio in favor of leaving copies of the poem under Caesar and Mamurra's doors, but this is because he makes all the best life choices.

* * *

A week later, he meets Juventius at a party.

Probably he should have been less drunk.

It's not his fault Juventius is so stupid hot that everything Catullus says about him just sounds idiotic.

"You have eyes like--" he pauses and gestures, with a wobbly motion, with his red plastic cup-- "eyes. Shit. Eyes like... honey. Um. Your lips are. Uh."

Juventius smiles at him, leaning in and plucking the cup out of his hand, setting it down before he can spill it, and it's not like he's not just as drunk. God, he's hot. "What about my lips?"

His lips are red, flushed, wet. His eyes are bright. He has one hand wrapped around the back of Catullus' neck and the other one now toying with the belt loops of Catullus' jeans. They haven't kissed. They haven't done anything, because Catullus can't think of the right words to _say_ , because they're all trapped in his stupid drunken brain, God, he could cry, and where did all these feelings come from?

Catullus clears his throat and smiles. "I stole from you, while you were teasing, my sweet Juventius, a little kiss, a kiss sweeter than sweet ambrosia."

"What's ambrosia?" Juventius pushes up against him, almost writhing, and his lips are parted.

"It's better than beer," Catullus says, and he kisses him.

Someone behind him coughs. "Faggot."

When he opens his eyes, he sees Aurelius and Furius snickering, and he flips them both off behind Juventius' back. Jealous fuckers. At least he's getting laid. No one's gonna fuck either of them.

* * *

Juventius is fucking amazing in bed, and it almost -- but not quite -- hurts Catullus to think about the look he'll have on his face in the morning when Catullus tells him. He's been picturing the disappointment.

"It was fun," he says, "but, come on, dude, it's college. I don't want to commit."

But Juventius just grins. "Jesus, C, did you think I wanted to get married? I just meant I'd like it if we fucked again."

This no-strings-attached shit is the best. The fucking best, man.

* * *

Catullus spends the rest of the glorious morning writing an entire poem about Juventius' mouth, entirely ignoring his Greek paper, and going to the campus bookstore to buy refrigerator magnets. He puts up a copy of his poem and then uses the magnets to spell out AURELIUS AND FURIUS CAN SCK MY AMAZING DICK on the fridge. He runs out of Us.

It's still awesome.

* * *

So it's shaping up to be a pretty good year, all things told. Sure, he's not going to most of his classes, but whatever. He's writing some totally awesome shit, Calvus is going to be his BFF for life, and he's getting laid regularly, which is especially good when the guy who lives next to you is fucking his way through the entire campus. Catullus just hopes Caesar doesn't actually decide to go into politics after this, because Jesus Christ, can you even imagine it?

And then there's Lesbia.

He doesn't even know her name. But that's what he calls her, because it fits her so exactly; it's what she should be called.

It's a party, it's crowded, but, God, there's just something about her. She's beautiful. She's perfect. 

And of course, she's there with her boyfriend. Catullus glares at him and wishes he could be that guy. He wishes that guy would die horribly. Right now. He probably doesn't even know how lucky he is. He's the one she's looking at, looking at and laughing and it's so awful. Catullus can hardly see. He can't think of a thing to say.

* * *

He writes a poem.

He cries.

But he doesn't, like, cry a lot, so it's probably okay.

* * *

She's there at the next party. Alone.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi," he says, and fuck, he sounds like an idiot. "I'm Catullus."

She smiles, and it's so perfect it breaks his heart. "I'm--"

"You're Lesbia."

She laughs and tucks her hair behind her ear, looking confused. "Did you just call me a lesbian?"

"Lesbia," he clarifies, and this sounded way more suave in his head. "Yeah, but not, like, a dyke. There was this poet Sappho, and she was from the island Lesbos, and she was a really great poet. They called her the tenth muse." Geez. Maybe he should have kept going to Greek class.

"Oh," she says, laughing, and then she looks up at him with a smile that's all full of desire. "You have a nickname for me?" she asks, and her voice is kind of shy, but teasing. He likes it.

"Yeah." He smiles back. "I, um. I thought it sounded like you."

"I'm not actually a lesbian, though, you know." She's still grinning. "Just in case you were wondering."

"I'm glad," he says, and then somehow they're kissing and he feels like he's flying or maybe falling but it's the best he's ever felt, and it's all worth it, it's all going to be worth it, he's never going to hit the ground--

* * *

Caesar gives him a funny look, once, after Lesbia's left Catullus' room wearing one of his shirts.

"I thought you were gay," Caesar says, when she's gone. He says it like he disapproves, and that's pretty rich coming from him.

Catullus glares at him. "I prefer not to label," he says. He doesn't see why everyone else is so hung up on labels. Like Caesar there. Says he's straight. Ha. Why does it matter so much what you call something? Love is love, man.

Mamurra laughs his stupid annoying laugh. "Dude, Catullus, I saw your girlfriend at that bar downtown the other day, and she was--"

He holds up a hand. "Shut up. It's an open relationship, okay?"

Mamurra keeps laughing.

He doesn't want to know. He doesn't. She loves him.

* * *

She breaks up with him in the spring.

He doesn't leave his bed for a day.

He doesn't leave his room for a week.

* * *

He writes a poem about her.

They print it in the school literary magazine.

She doesn't call.

He sends a copy of the magazine to his father, texts Juventius to ask him to come over, and changes his major to creative writing. Fuck everyone else. It's his life, and it's going to be what he wants. It's going to be awesome.


End file.
